


Be He King, Prince, or Witcher

by RedEris



Series: White Wolf White Knight [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Vampires, egregious application of crafter nerdery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 13:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15365862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: With Ciri safe, the north at peace, and Corvo Bianco thriving, Geralt is trying to find his place in things But just as he begins to build something he can believe in, things take a nasty turn.





	Be He King, Prince, or Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> Two things: one, this story features an original character introduced in my story Orphan, who is a child that Geralt has accidentally adopted, but I don't think you need to have read that story to know what's going on here. Two, this is a reworking of one of my favorite folk tales. I'll tell you which at the end, so as not to spoil anything.

Geralt strode up the hill from the vineyards. Sweat rolled down his neck from the heat of this stubborn late summer. “How’s my favorite cook doing?” he said, stopping by the well.

Marlene looked up and smiled as he took the well crank out of her hands.

“Very well, thanks. Have you been bothering the field hands again?”

“Bothering? You mean helping.”

Marlene took the dipper that hung by the well and offered Geralt a scoop of water, which he took gratefully. “No love, bothering is what I said. Owner isn’t supposed to work the fields. They don’t know what to do with it and you make them tense--they think you’re watching to make sure they work.”

“Is that why they’re so damn stiff. Huh.” He took another long drink out of the dipper, looking sour. “Just tryina be useful.”

Marlene lifted her bucket of water, and then paused, and deliberately set it down on the rim of the well again.

“Geralt, if you’ll excuse my butting in, I’d like to offer a bit of advice.” Geralt crossed his legs as he leaned against the well and grunted assent. “I know you’ve been having trouble settling, getting restless, feeling at loose ends. I know from the stories that Corvo Bianco is a big change for you. Thing is, you’ll allow as how I’m a bit of an expert on starting over again, and what I found, when I had to feel I was still worth the space, was cooking. A craft. Something real, that made a result I could see, and that I could see people enjoying.”

“So I should get a hobby?”

“Not hobby. Craft. A trade. Something valuable you can do with your own two hands. Besides handle monsters, of course. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no matter how high your position, the only things we can be sure of are the things we carry in ourselves, so you’d better make them good.”

“Huh.” Geralt stood up again, grabbing the bucket. “Thanks Marlene. I’ll think about it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Well, what do you think?” Regis asked.

Geralt swirled the cup under his nose again. “Juniper’s nicely balanced with the orange, notes of coriander, cinnamon, and...pepper? Not pepper…”

“Cubebs,” Regis offered. “But I do recall what I put in, you know. I asked how you like it.”

“Love it,” Geralt said simply, finishing the cup and holding it out for a refill. “You’re getting to be a real master.”

“Well...thank you,” said Regis, slightly flustered by the generous praise.

“You know…” Geralt trailed off. Regis prompted him with a hum of interest. “You know,” he went on, “Marlene thinks I should pick up a new trade. Says it’s good to make something with your own hands, something tangible.”

“She’s quite right, of course. And it’s past time, I think, that you learn a skill you choose for yourself.”

“Hadn’t thought of it like that,” Geralt said.

“You could take up weaving, learn to make silk brocades--”

Geralt interrupted with a laugh. “Weaving? Me? Have you seen these?” He held up his hands.

“They are very...fine hands. What do you mean by that?”

“They’re very rough, calloused hands. I think you’re just still on about those silkworms from the other day.”

“Fascinating creatures!” Regis said, instantly distracted. “The merchant said that they feed on the leaves of the white mulberry. I did happen to notice that there are several in your woodlot.”

“If you want to raise silkworms, you’re welcome to my mulberry leaves.” Geralt chuckled fondly. “But no weaving.”

Regis went on to suggest a series of increasingly ridiculous trades-- “Luthier! No, lapidary work! Taxidermy!”--until Geralt finished his drink and stood up.

“Enough of your nonsense, Reg. If you want to go with me, I have to head into town and commission more wooden waster swords. Jerome’s destroyed the last lot battering the pell to bits.”

Regis gasped gleefully. “Or--!”

“Orrr….I could figure out how to make them myself.”

“Woodworking!” Regis cried. “What more practical! Turn those sword callouses upon the chisel! It’s perfect.” Geralt couldn’t help an answering smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first set of wooden swords rapidly became splinters under the onslaught of Jerome’s training. Geralt picked up some books, a bit of good advice, some locust and hickory to compare, and the next set lasted much better--better, in fact, than the ones he’d been buying. Though he did nearly shred his thumbs fighting the tight-grained locust. Hickory, then.

It _was_ strangely satisfying. Like sharpening his sword or cleaning his gear, which he’d always rather liked, to be honest. Easy to get engrossed in, almost meditative. More to learn, different sorts of puzzles to solve. And to hold a thing and see that it was...pretty okay, and that he’d made it? Yeah, it was nice. 

Fall passed into winter, and with a warm hearth to sit by and the world outside half-asleep, Geralt made mountains of kindling as he slowly mastered the curve and heft, the grain and flow of wood. Then he began to embellish. Chip by chip, he taught himself to carve, first simple geometric designs and then more complex things. 

Jerome tried his hand as well, but didn’t find an interest in much beyond sharp sticks. They did grow a rather distressing collection of sharp sticks Geralt wasn’t permitted to burn, though. Mostly, Geralt would carve and Jerome would practice his reading, laboriously working his way through _Ghouls and Alghouls_ \--Geralt’s biggest concession yet to Jerome’s demands for witcher training. The boy had seen enough violence and instability in his life, losing not one but two families. He still woke up crying in the night too often. If a boring book could help him feel safer in a dangerous world, so be it.

And it was a _very_ boring book. Many a quiet evening ended with Geralt setting aside his work to carry a limp, warm, sleeping boy up the stairs to his bed. Maybe someday Jerome would realize that Geralt was using _Ghouls and Alghouls_ to put him to sleep, but until then, it was working great.

It was a quiet winter. Peaceful. Occasional trips into Beauclair, gwent with Damien, Friday night drinks and moonlit walks with Regis. Sawdust and woodchips. Watching Jerome shoot up and gain weight on Marlene’s steady onslaught of food. Peace never lasted long, and he’d probably get bored if it did, but Geralt was finding he didn’t mind it for now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Marlene came in one morning with her big eyes shining and the year’s first crocuses in her hand, Geralt held out a cloth bundle. 

“Made you something.”

“For me? Ah!” Marlene set the flowers aside and excitedly untied the wrappings. As the cloth fell away, she gasped, and then burst out laughing.

“A _spoon_! Oh Geralt!” Geralt chuckled as she laughed. “And a courting spoon, at that! My my!”

“Think of it as a friendship spoon. I’m far too old for the likes of you, young lady. Though if you want, it can mean that I hope you know you always have a home here.”

Laughing still, Marlene leaned up and threw her arms around Geralt’s neck. Startled, he vaguely patted her back.

“Ah, thank you,” she said, pulling back. “You really have gotten very good. The carving is perfectly lovely. I shall hang it on my wall and treasure it always.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With the weather warming up, Geralt spent less time carving, and more time training Jerome or out on contracts. He stuck to things within a day or two’s ride, for the most part. Officially, he didn’t want to be away from Jerome for too long, but secretly, it was really easy to get soft when you had free access to hot meals and a soft bed. 

As Belletyne approached, though, he began his most ambitious project yet. While the locals raised the Maypoles and stacked the bonfires, Geralt put the finishing touches on a lovingly carved scabbard for Ciri’s birthday. She could afford far nicer herself, now, but then, that would be true of anything Geralt could give her.

On Belletyne itself, Ciri was busy with grandiose birthday fetes in Nilfgaard, but as soon as she could get away, she showed up on the steps of Corvo Bianco, dressed down and grinning. Jerome was in utter awe of her at first, but true to form, by three hours in she had him squatting in the dirt with her, yelling and crowing over a game of jacks. By the time she called him “Little Brother,” Jerome would happily have died for her.

Geralt figured that the stars in Ciri’s eyes when he gave her the scabbard went a long way towards justifying this whole woodworking experiment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The contract came up just as the heat of summer was really setting in. It was a bit farther than he’d been traveling--two day’s ride--but just from the description he was fairly sure it was a bruxa. No point some other sod getting killed when he could fix the problem. So he rescheduled Friday night with Regis, mussed Jerome’s hair, and headed out.

Turned out, some other sod was already working on getting killed--two, in fact. Geralt picked up this tidbit at an inn a little distance away from the source of the contract. Two young knights errant had gone through the night before, each boasting louder than the other that they’d be the first to take the creature and gain the glory. Rubbing his face tiredly, Geralt paid for his dinner and headed back out instead of taking a room.

Geralt figured he’d start by tracking the knights, since they were likely to have kicked up anything in these woods that was preying on humans. They weren’t exactly sneaking. Their path was plain as sun on plate armor.

Sure enough, before long he heard the unmistakable shriek of an angry bruxa. He heeled Roach into a canter, which was as fast as he dared take her in the woods at night. He cursed as he heard the clash of an armored body sent flying.

By the time he got to the fight, one knight was obviously down for the count. The other was bleeding from the shoulder, pauldron hanging loose at an angle that was interfering with the man’s shield. Geralt slammed a dose of Black Blood and vaulted off Roach, casting Igni as he went.

The bruxa was a pain in the ass, as they always were, but he’d come prepared. He tossed a Moon Dust as soon as he had a clear shot, lit her up like a torch, and with the remaining knight to distract her he had her down before she’d managed to lay a finger on him. Professional. Efficient.

The downed knight was coming round by the time Geralt had his blade cleaned and put up. He didn’t look much hurt, outwardly, so the bruxa’s concussive scream had probably taken him down. The knight with the shoulder injury had been shaking him and begging him to wake up. Evidently, they were brothers. Just made the whole thing more idiotic in Geralt’s eyes, nearly getting them both killed over what? Sibling rivalry? Barely more than children.

Not only brothers, as it turned out, but twins. Lukas and Fabian de Hauteville. Lukas was effusively grateful to Geralt for saving the two of them. At least he realized that they’d been in way over their heads. Fabian was still disoriented and complaining of deafness in one ear, but Geralt assured them that it would heal. He patched Lukas up--a nasty gash but nothing that wouldn’t heal well with proper cleaning--and suggested that they all move away from the body and make camp. He was happy enough to get to sleep, and Fabian wouldn’t be ready to ride until morning at least.

The de Hautevilles had brought a couple of bottles of a very nice family vintage to celebrate their anticipated victory, so instead they toasted Geralt’s victory with the wine. As the evening went on, Geralt slowly shifted from exasperated at their childish antics to sorry for them. They clearly didn’t see it, but it wasn’t hard for him to read between the lines. They’d come to this pass because their mother was pitting them against each other, dangling their inheritance above each of their heads in turn.

Geralt was just feeling loose and warm--toward this fine wine, towards these two silly, damaged boys, towards the night sky and being out under it--when he realized that he really shouldn’t be this drunk. And then he realized that both of his companions had passed out.

He sniffed the bottle he’d been drinking from. “What--?”

That was the point at which the rest of the bruxae showed up. He saw a hissing face loom out of the darkness, and then...nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt woke up being dragged through the woods, slung between two bruxae. He stayed limp, buying time to assess the situation. Behind him, in glimpses, he saw a katakan carrying each of the de Hauteville boys, and more lower vampires circling around them. Geralt was no expert on vampiric social structure, but he’d never heard of them gathering in numbers like this before.

Not unless a higher vampire willed it.

The cave the vampires took them to was down a rocky gully, concealed by an illusion. Geralt would have been hard-pressed to find it even if he’d known exactly where to look. He kept as careful track of their route as he could manage with his head hanging down. Other vampires--guards?--met them just inside the cave entrance. There followed what Geralt could only assume was a telepathic conversation, with only the occasional hissing word but plenty of gestures. The upshot of the conversation, though, was that they smacked dimeritium shackles on his ankles, and then shackled his right arm to Lukas’s. He gave up the pretense of unconsciousness--at this point, he’d just have to hope they lived long enough to get out, because he was thoroughly hobbled.

They were taken deeper into the cave, until the passage broke through into an elven ruin. Painted over the walls from time to time were sigils like those he had seen at Tesham Mutna, though none of them matched the ones he’d seen there.

The complex was huge. The group passed room after room, some of which he caught glimpses in. A couple were full of stores--crates and barrels, bales of cloth. In one, katakan pups swarmed over a nest. Light came out from under a couple of closed doors. And in one, closed only with a barred gate, crouched a dozen humans, half-naked and sickly-smelling. Everything was dimly lit with irregular torches, suited to the eyesight of vampires and not humans. Geralt had never seen nor heard of anything like it. He had counted eleven vampires thus far.

Beside him, Lukas was crying not-quite-silently.

“Hang in there,” Geralt whispered. “And follow my lead. Vampires can be reasoned with.”

But that room full of humans was a pretty solid hint that whoever was in charge here was no humanist, as Regis called them. Geralt remembered the books in Tesham Mutna--the ones about keeping humans as livestock.

At last, they were pushed into a large room, comfortably furnished as a study, though still dim. A man, young looking with blonde ringlets, glanced up from what appeared to be a log book.

“Ah, the witcher. Very good.” The man set aside his pen with slender, talon-tipped fingers and stood.

“My name is Aristide le Maingre, though you will call me Master. You have been given the singular honor of serving my clan. Now then, do you have a trade?”

Geralt stared at him. “Witcher. You already said.”

The man--vampire, rather--chuckled. “Hardly likely to be of use here, though it does amuse me. If you have no more useful trade, you may serve in the feeder pens.”

Ah. Geralt repressed a small smile.

“Yeah, I have a trade. Damn fine woodworker. These men are my apprentices.” He hitched his chin at Lukas and Fabian, both of whom had the sense to stay silent.

“Really? How fortuitous! Our previous woodworker failed to prove profitable. His tools lie idle. Very well,” Aristide said, turning his back. “Take them to the wood shop and have them provided with materials. We shall see if they serve.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The residents of Corvo Bianco didn’t begin to worry until a week had passed. Geralt had, after all, anticipated being gone for at least six days, and things could always come up. On the ninth day, though, Roach trotted into the yard riderless, and Corvo Bianco collectively panicked. Barnabas-Basil rode into town and set to badgering anyone he thought might have information of any sort with a ferocity which would later horrify him. Marlene, eyes puffy and red, went looking for Jerome and found him in a closet, dry-eyed but curled tightly around a carved wooden werewolf. Wordless, she sat down beside him, and they leaned against each other, crying in the closet.

When Regis came for Friday night drinks two days later, he found the vineyard manager composing tragic poetry in the yard as his wife cried over her broom. He was out the door again within minutes, armed with the little Barnabas-Basil had been able to discover: a copy of the original contract from the ducal camerlengo.

Ciri was on her bedroom balcony the following Monday, watching dusk fall over Nilfgaard, when the first of the ravens landed by her hand. A dozen more followed, and then two dozen, cawing gently, nudging against her hands, their shifting wings a susurrus that could almost have been words, and she knew she was needed. 

But though Regis and Ciri circled around and around the remains of Geralt’s campsite for days, they could find nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt liked to keep the shop lit with as many torches as he was permitted. The de Hautevilles needed them, of course, to see the finer details of their work, but mostly he just enjoyed watching any vampires that had to come in scrunch up their faces at the sudden brightness.

“No, first knuckle of the thumb on the bottom of the blade,” he corrected Lukas patiently. “Your angle’s too steep for that cut.” The boys had picked up the basics of construction quickly enough to stay alive, but he wasn’t convinced that Lukas was cut out for precision work.

Not that any of them were at their best these days. Lukas and Fabian suffered more from the insufficient food and stale air than he did, and Fabian in particular had nightmares which left him with perpetual dark circles under his eyes.

“Keep working,” Geralt said for the thousandth time. “Just gotta stay alive. Our chance will come.” But he didn’t know, honestly, how much longer he could keep the boys going. Two months of short rations and rough treatment were nothing compared to despair.

So he did what he could do. He sent message after message out into the world, blindly, on the bare chance that they’d pass by someone who knew what they were seeing. This box contained a geometric pattern of Witcher signs. The stool before it had told, in stylized panels, the story of Ciri facing the White Frost. And on each, on the back or underneath, three diamonds below a tower. Every piece that left his shop carried the same message--I am here, I am here. 

Both men looked up as the door opened, and Fabian staggered in, clutching the maple board he’d been sent for. His eyes were glazed, his face sickly pale. Lukas dropped his knife and ran to his brother.

“Damn it all,” Geralt said.

“They’ve been drinking from him again,” Lukas growled, eyes tight with impotent fury.

“That’s it. From now on, we all go to the storeroom together. And I’m going to see Aristide.”

Geralt went to the door and began bellowing for attention, clattering his shackles against the wall. After several minutes of this racket, a sulky Alp yanked the outer door open. “What,” she hissed.

“Take me to the Master.”

Aristide was at his desk, as usual. He looked up distractedly as Geralt barged in, shaking off his guard’s grip.

“I trust you have sufficient reason for this interruption?”

“Damn right I do,” Geralt said. “Tell your clan to stop draining my workers. If I lose help, you lose revenue.”

“Workers can be replaced. My clan’s happiness comes before trivial monetary concerns.”

“No, workers _can’t_ just be replaced. You want profitability, you need skilled work. Fabian is a good worker. Humans aren’t interchangeable blood bags.”

“No? I have found otherwise. Take him away.”

Geralt wrestled free of his guard again.

“At least give us enough food! He can’t even grow you more damn blood if you won’t feed him.”

Aristide snapped his gaze up to meet Geralt’s eyes, and Geralt’s entire body was abruptly paralyzed.

“Witcher, I tolerate your outbursts because it amuses me to keep you on a leash, and because you provide us with a modest source of income. Do not overestimate your value to me. Go.” He looked away.

This time, Geralt went with the insistent tug of his alp guard.

“Ah, yes,” added Aristide, “I nearly forgot. A vampire and a white-haired girl searched the area around your former camp, but have evidently given up. In the event that you had hoped for rescue, set the notion aside. Hope is such a torment to you humans, and I want you focused on your work.”

Geralt kept his back turned and his face shielded, but his heart leapt. Ciri and Regis had been here. And whatever Aristide thought, they would not give up so easily.

His mind raced. If Ciri was still nearby, she would probably be staying at the palace in Beauclair. Anything else would be a grave political error. And if she was at the palace… if… then there might be a chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took a full week to finish the trunk even at breakneck speed, which was a risk in itself. Fancier pieces took longer to sell, and Aristide preferred things with faster turnover. It took every ounce of skill and knowledge he’d gained thus far, plus a few things he honestly wasn’t sure he could pull off. When it was done, he took it to Aristide in person. The Great Sun on the lid was unmissable.

“This is my masterpiece,” Geralt said, bluntly. “Take it to the Emperor. If he likes it, you will instantly have more demand than I could possibly fill from all the nobles and sycophants in Nilfgaard.”

“Too far to travel,” Aristide said. “You have wasted my time and resources with this Nilfgaardian nonsense. And yet…” he turned to the man--human, Geralt thought, the sort that was willing to sell the whole world out to line his pocket--standing behind him. “Did you not say that the Nilfgaardian princess is making a state visit to Beauclair?” The man nodded, making it almost a bow. “Very well. Select some other luxury goods and have them taken to the palace. Perhaps this princess will open new avenues of trade.”

Safely back in his shop, Geralt allowed himself to share a smile, a small ray of hope, with Lukas and Fabian.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ciri gnashed her teeth. “I don’t _want_ to look at bloody fabric samples!” she half-shouted. I want to _find_ him!”

“As do I, you well know,” duchess Anna Henrietta soothed. “But we are public figures, and appearances must be kept up. There are applicants who have been waiting to see you for days, and they will soon begin to wonder why the princess shuts herself away.”

“I know! I know. Just...give me a minute to put myself together.”

Ciri nearly froze the instant she saw the trunk. It couldn’t be. It _had_ to be. The work was unmistakable. Geralt’s work.

Only Emhyr’s rigorous training got her through the next few minutes.

“The carving on this box--truly remarkable,” she made herself say. “Where did it come from?”

“My master has had the good fortune to procure the services of a master craftsman.”

“And could I speak to your master? I would love to see more of this man’s work.”

“Sadly, impossible. His health does not permit that he travel. I will be happy to take any request or commission you might have.”

“Have you rooms in town?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Then return here this evening, and I will have a letter for you to carry to your master. And I will take the trunk.”

As the merchant left, Ciri spoke to Annarietta. “Please have that man followed.”

“Damien!” Annarietta snapped out.

“Immediately, Your Grace.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ciri had already been over and over every inch of the trunk, but with Regis, she began again.

“The four corners. I don’t understand what the theme is. There’s got to be one, but...mushrooms and distilling and ghouls and dwarves? What could those things possibly have in common?” Ciri slumped back on the floor of her room.

“Hmmm. Sewant mushrooms, very specifically. His skill has increased--the rendering is exquisite. Sewant mushrooms, a ghoul holding a flask--is that an attempt at humor, or am I failing to understand something?--distillation, and dwarves. Dwarven distillations? But why the...ghoul! Black Blood!”

“What?” Ciri sat up quickly.

“Black Blood! Ghoul’s blood, dwarven ale, and sewant mushrooms. I have assisted him in its brewing!”

Ciri and Regis exchanged a look. “Vampires,” she said.

Regis nodded emphatically.

“What else have you found?” Regis asked. 

“Well, let’s see. The Great Sun, that must have been so it would come to me, simple enough. His crest’s on the inside, in the middle of the front, but there’s a little triangle--maybe an arrow?--below it that I don’t get.”

“What is on the outside of the box by the arrow?” Regis said, moving to look himself. “Ah, a border of witcher signs, and a...cave mouth?”

“A blocked cave mouth. With Aard over top of it. I wonder…” She pressed her thumb into the slight indentation formed by the cave mouth. “It shifted! I felt it shift!” She pressed the divot in the bottom of the trunk again, and then again, more firmly. “Dammit!” She smacked the chest angrily.

And a sheet of wood slid out of concealment along the entire bottom of the trunk.

The carving on this thin slip of wood was in direct contrast with the lush carving on the outside--hasty scratches, with stain rubbed in to bring out the marks. A map.

Multiple maps, actually. First, one from the campfire they already knew well to a gully some distance away, with a separate rendering of the hidden cave mouth. A closed eye had been sketched over the cave mouth. Second, there was a rough rendering of the cave complex. Many passages ended in question marks, but a few things were clear--several rooms marked with shackles, one large room labeled with the words “kill this fucker”-- and a cluster of rooms down one passage marked with the diamonds and tower of Geralt’s crest.

“Oh...Oh Regis,” Ciri said, her voice bubbling with tears and hysterical laughter. “We’re going to get him back. We’re going to get him back!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eskel was just thinking about stopping for the night when there was a loud pop behind him and the world shifted.

“Sweet Melitele!” he said, blinking at Ciri.

“Geralt needs you,” she said, without preamble.

“Okay. Where are we going?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How many sorceresses can you get in one day?” Ciri said.

“Let’s see,” mused Yennefer, already throwing supplies in a bag. “Margarita is working at the tower, and I know where to find Keira and Triss. And Lambert, I suppose, if he's with Keira.”

“Do it,” said Ciri, striding out. She left Yennefer smiling slightly at the fate that had led to _Ciri_ ordering _her_ around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ciri looked around the assemblage with satisfaction. Two witchers, four sorceresses, Damien de la Tour, a troop of the Duchess’ best guards armed to the teeth with silver, a higher vampire, and her. Even the Wild Hunt would have quailed before them.

That, and one sniveling merchant.

“Tell me!” she snapped. “How many vampires? What kinds?”

The merchant shook his head mutely.

“We don’t have time for this,” hissed Triss. She rapped out a half dozen words in Elder Speech, and suddenly the merchant screamed in agony. “This takes me almost no energy to maintain, so stopping it is really on you. Answer the woman’s questions.”

“Twenty! Twenty, sometimes more. Katakans, bruxae, alps--babies, too. And the Master. Lots of prisoners, I don’t know how many. Please, make it stop!”

“Not yet. Show me on the map. Where do they stay? Are there prisoners beyond those marked here?”

Cringing, the merchant answered her questions. 

“Please! I’ve told you everything I know. Please make it stop!”

“For the moment,” Triss said, snapping her fingers. The man sagged in Eskel’s grip.

“Alright. Do we all know the plan? Are we ready?” Ciri asked.

“Ready to feed some bloodsuckers their own guts, yeah,” Lambert growled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door guards fell almost before they knew what was happening. No alarm was raised. They couldn’t hope to go undetected long, but Ciri wanted to get to as many prisoners as possible. Geralt would never have wanted to trade his life for those of innocents.

Lambert and Eskel commented on the smell almost immediately, but the fullness of the stench didn’t hit the others until they reached the elven ruins. Old blood, smoke, and human waste. As the ruin began to branch out, the group divided into three, each with their own copy of the map and their own targeted groups of prisoners to secure. Yennefer, Ciri, and Regis went forward, spearing directly toward the rooms marked with Geralt’s crest.

Either there were a lot more than twenty vampires, or Ciri’s group encountered nearly every one of them. But though Ciri and Yen were both bleeding and Regis, fueled by rage, had taken half a dozen wounds that would have been lethal to a human, still they moved forward. They found the katakan nest, but at a soft “please, don't” from Regis, they left it untouched. More odd was the empty pottery shop, a half-finished vase still crumbling on a wheel.

At last, they came to Geralt’s rooms. Yennefer melted the lock off the door and before the metal stopped running, Ciri kicked the door open.

“I am angry,” came a calm voice. “Yes, I think very angry.”

Geralt stood unmoving in the middle of the room, turned halfway away from the door. Facing him was a young-looking blonde man in embroidered velvet. The man’s long, razor-sharp talons caressed Geralt’s throat. Behind them, two young men were caught in the grasp of a pair of alps.

“Principally, I am angry at myself. Three hundred years I have kept my clan safe and well, and here I have risked it all for the low jest of keeping a witcher on a leash.”

Ciri started forward. “Beast, let him go!”

“Ah ah!” Aristide raised his free hand in warning, without looking away from Geralt’s face. A line of red welled up on Geralt’s neck, but still he stood unmoving. Ciri stopped.

“Vampire. Blood traitor. What is your name, so that I may know who to name Anathema?”

Regis stepped forward. “I am Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, but whatever my crimes, you will not be alive to enumerate them. Get away from him.”

“And what will you do? You can’t possibly think you are fast enough to stop me before these fragile humans perish. I am Aristide le Maingre, and I do not tolerate harm to my clan.” Aristide drew back his arm, snarling.

Ciri screamed and blurred forward. Yennefer shouted a single word, and brilliant light exploded through the room. Aristide recoiled midway through the blow he had begun, breaking his hold over Geralt, who came to life instantly. He ducked under the blow and came back up with all his strength, smashing his forehead into Aristide’s face. Then he rolled sideways, leaving Aristide to Regis and Ciri. He snatched up a chisel and lunged at the nearest alp, freeing Fabian to scramble away as best he could. Geralt snagged her legs with the chain between his shackles, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs.

“Blind the bastard!” Geralt bellowed. Regis did, shoving his claws straight through the back of Aristide’s head and out the front. Aristide snarled, his false humanity dropping away as he tore himself loose. He lashed out brutally at the space where Ciri had just been, but she was gone.

At a shout from Yennefer, the second alp burst into flames. Tearing out of her grip, Lukas sent her flying with a vicious kick and a howl of rage. Snatching up a wooden mallet, he brought it down with all his might on the first alp’s head.

By the time Geralt and the twins had dealt with the alps, Aristide was a quivering mass of flesh on the floor, and Ciri was still kicking him. Regis put a hand on her arm.

“Stand back. This is for me to do.”

“Regis, you jackass, hold up!” Geralt gasped out, clutching his side. “Can you get off your martyr horse for a second and consider options that don’t get you blacklisted from the entire empire indefinitely?”

“We have no time! He is regenerating! His power is enormous!”

“I’m sure Yennefer can fix that. Yen?”

Yennefer considered for a moment, and then with a few words pulled a loose stone out of the wall and dropped it on the remains of Aristide’s head. She stepped back fastidiously from the splatter. Fabian squeaked.

“I claim him.” Ciri looked down at the vampire with burning eyes. “He is an enemy of the people of my empire, and he will be held to account like the criminal he is.”

“You cannot kill him,” Regis said.

“Then I will keep him.”

Eskel burst into the room, followed by Lambert. “Ooh, squishy!” said Lambert, grinning gleefully.

“Damn, did you bring _everyone_?” Geralt gaped as Damien followed the witchers into the room.

“Report, Captain,” Ciri rapped out.

“Your Imperial Highness. My men are outside with the prisoners we’ve liberated. The sorceresses as well. Our sweep of the ruins is not complete, but we have encountered no new enemies for some little time.”

“Thank you, Damien. Now, we are taking this vampire into custody. Dismember him, wrap the limbs in silver wire, and secure them separately. We will take more permanent measures when we reach the palace.”

“Immediately, Your Highness.” Damien drew his silver-edged sword and stepped towards the still-twitching body.

All at once, Ciri’s composure broke. Turning, she flung herself at Geralt, who caught her in his arms, pulling her tight against his chest.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!,” she sobbed. “We couldn’t find you!”

“I’m fine. You got me. We’re all alright.” Geralt squeezed Ciri hard one more time, and then let go with one arm to look around the room. “Thanks, everyone.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Triss had already set up a makeshift field hospital by the time Geralt got outside. She cried out and ran to hug him when he came out, and then pushed him away to look over his injuries. He had some mild burns from dealing with the burning alp, a long shallow cut on his neck, and a few nasty slashes, but he pushed her off.

“Look to Lukas. I think his shoulder’s in nasty shape.” He pointed to indicate the right twin. If anything, he knew, Fabian was the worst off, but nothing but time, rest, and good food would heal what ailed him. 

Some of the rescued ‘feeders’ huddled in clumps around them looked as though they were past the point of no return. But he’d see to it they got help. He, and Ciri.

Command looked good on her. Maybe Emhyr was doing her some good after all.

As soon as Regis emerged from the cave, Geralt caught him.

“Where’s Jerome? Is he alright?”

“Safe, and with Marlene at the inn a little ways from here. They wanted to be near. There is something you should know, though. He has not spoken since you left.”

“Shit.” Geralt dragged a hand down his face. “Shit. Alright. Come with me?”

“Always, my friend.” Regis smiled, and Geralt returned the smile, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt paused with his hand on the inn door, and then squared his shoulders and went through. This early in the afternoon, the common room was nearly empty. Only three people looked up at the new arrivals--the innkeep, an old woman, and a sullen-faced young boy.

“Hey,” Geralt began lamely. His greeting was drowned in Marlene’s joyful cry as she bounded across the room, throwing herself into his arms. He picked her up and spun her, laughing. Then he set her down carefully, and both of them looked at Jerome, who still stood uncertainly. Geralt took three quick strides across the room and knelt in front of him.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I’m so sorry. I spent a lot of time thinking about you, when I was in that cave. Thinking about how you didn’t deserve to lose your family again and about how I should have made you my priority. But I never stopped trying to get back to you, and I never will. Alright?”

Jerome nodded once, stiffly-and then burst out sobbing and flung himself into Geralt’s arms. Once there, he refused to let go. Finally, Geralt simply stood back up and held the boy where he was, arms and legs wrapped around like a monkey.

“You saved me, you know, Marlene.”

“Oh, pish. Seems to me a great many powerful people worked together to save you.”

“True, and I’m honestly blown away. But _you_ \--you saved my life that day by the well when you said I should learn a trade. Without that, there’d have been no one to save today.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone catch what the original tale was? It's the beautiful Armenian story, Anaeet, sometimes called Clever Anaeet. The title is a (modified) quote from my childhood copy of the story. It started as an intellectual exercise to see if I could rework the story and uh. Took off from there.


End file.
